Don't Shoot Me, I'm Only The Piano Player
It didn't happen the way it usually did.
Up until then, he was known to follow a ... format, a routine, when it came to these things. The same way one would consider it the norm to frequent the club scene, seeking company, he favored the hostage situation/wham-bam-dispose-of-you-ma'am from which he derived his sadistic, deviant pleasure. Hit-and-run. Quick and painful. Instant gratification.
In spite of this, he still had the odd flickering urge for intimacy. Never love, not romance, or even some semblance of commitment – he held those in the deepest contempt. Those were dilute illusions, marks of weakness, and nothing else. He simply entertained the thought of having someone familiar to look forward to, who knew and connected with him, whom he wouldn't have to take a knife to in order to get the job done. He had, after all, been wholly human once.
But although these thoughts appealed to a certain part of him, they also disgusted the larger, dominant part him. The part that thrived on fear – fear as an instrument, composing the preferable background music to any situation, especially of a sexual nature. Dismissing these thoughts of intimacy as a defect, a sickness, he would sardonically remind himself that this supposed emotional whoring was nothing a couple of explosions couldn't cure. And so he had carried on.
But this time was different. It started with another bead on playboy Bruce Wayne's seemingly endless string of parties.
The Joker had been lying low since his escape from Arkham two weeks ago. He had been holed up, perfecting his latest and greatest, and as an unfortunate side effect, was granting the still-reeling Gotham yet another night of reprieve from his large-scale chaos. But he was pursuing a much more interesting trail here, with Mr. Bruce Wayne. This operation was much subtler, requiring a higher degree of … finesse.
See, the thing was, the Joker had a hunch. On the night of the attempted extermination of Gotham's former D.A. and fallen White Knight, alias Harvey 'ace-in-the-hole' Dent, Batman had made an admirably quick appearance at Wayne Manor. The Joker wasn't one to leave a trail, unless it was supposed to be followed. There were very few ways that Batman could have been tipped off as to his whereabouts and intentions, and to use that knowledge to appear so instantaneously. Now, he didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but the Joker didn't miss a trick. He orchestrated them. The bottom line being, the connection between Bruce and the Dark Knight was definitely made and duly noted for further perseverance.
Tonight was the night, when the exploration of the unexplained connection and its nature would begin. As would the slow unraveling of Bruce Wayne. Humming softly to himself, the Joker shrugged on his purple trench coat and loped towards his door. The van was ready. As a firm believer in sticking to what worked for him, he was planning an entrance in more or less the same fashion in which he had arrived at Harvey Dent's fundraiser. He had, after all, received such a wonderful reception. He giggled to himself as he hopped into the vehicle. God, he loved his job.
"And here … we … go." He laughed again, louder this time, as the van pulled out of the lot and sped through the darkened streets of downtown Gotham.
"All right, so, here's the deal, my, ah, not-so-pretties," he began to his henchmen. "I'm feeling rather, ha, nice this evening. I want to, to maintain what I'm sure is, a, loooovely party atmosphere. See, I need to get on Mr. Wayne's, ah, good side?" He spoke quietly, condescendingly, with his incredible, stifling presence silencing the men effortlessly. He exuded feral danger, leonine control. His verbal tics lessened as his demeanor was drained of its humor. "Intimidate, evacuate the room, and get to Wayne. Leave the problem cases to me."
His instructions were met with uncertain silence. He surveyed his clowns, slightly dissatisfied. Not enough fear. Smacking his lips, he spoke again in a lighter tone. "See, if I hear, that little Johnny got his little head blasted off by one of my men, that lucky clown will get a personal in-vi-tation from yours truly, to party aaaaallllll night long at Wayne Manor, swimming in his very … own … punch. Get me?"
Eight frightened heads bobbed back at him. The effect of the clown masks was quite hilarious. Now that was more like it. The Joker snorted, then sighed with pleasure as they pulled up to Wayne Manor. Time to get this show on the road.
Blasting their way through security was laughably effortless, much the same as it had been during his first visit. Didn't these people ever learn? Safety was, and always would be, such an illusion. They conquered the elevator in the same elementary fashion. Electricity buzzed through the Joker's veins as they rode up to the top floor. It was always the top floor. So predictable.
He strode out of the elevator purposefully, with his men following close behind. To his surprise, a set of newly installed double doors stopped him short. Those hadn't been there before. He tilted his head and sucked his bottom lip, considering them mockingly. "Nice, uh, décor," he sniggered. He was about to continue inside when he was stopped yet again, this time by a melody emerging from the other side of the great wooden doors. It was simple instrumentation, just a voice and piano, but wound its way inside his head and took root enough to halt his progression.
Dark, jazzy and melancholy, it appealed to him more than he could say. It's haunting harmony tickled his sinister tendencies, naturally, but also touched that long-suppressed side of him – the side that entertained the taboo thoughts of emotional intimacy. I'd have sex to that music suddenly sprang unbidden to his mind. He blinked and nearly recoiled. Where the hell had that thought come from? Since when did violent acts of carnality need a backing track? He shook his head violently and righted himself as the song ended and applause commenced. "There's our cue," he growled to his clowns, glaring menacingly and attempting to cover. "It's party time."